Why do I hear
about all the useless information
about how much a celebrity pays in property tax
about how she was only famous for ten minutes
about how all she does now is sit, high and drunk, on her couch and she couldn’t get up.
What if she never got up?
Would you talk about the intimate problems of a world filled with self destruction?
Would you talk about how men in blazers and button downs pull out their pocket books and kill countless other people?
In the stocks, flying high and dipping low
But she can’t get up from her couch,
high and drunk.
She can’t get up.
We both drink the same coffee.
We both sit in the same chairs.
Except you wear the blazer,
and I’m in checkered shoes with lines in my hair.
You talk about property tax, laugh about a woman abusing herself.
While I sit across from you, I’m that same woman.
Sitting, unable to stand.
You don’t know me.
You don’t know about a life where you sit in a Waffle House, where a stranger takes your order.
You always get the same order of fries and a coke.
You take turns in the bathroom with your friends.
Do you know about such a life?
I could bet all I’m worth,
that you arrive at your townhouse in your Toyota Tundra.
Take off your blazer, unbutton your shirt.
Sit down by the TV
in the dark
with a coffee
watching a show that tells you what is most important to know,
and you flip past the weather,
and the drive-bys,
and the deaths, the arrests. You watch what you are told is the most important to know.
That you should care about how much someone should pay on property tax.
You call it, “trying to solve the world’s problems.”